Upon a midnight blue road, puddles moon-lit, the T-Bird flew on. As the countryside left and right became a Monet blur, yards became miles. There were hills and mountains along the way, at times a curveless, optically infinite, highway ahead. This was where eagles fly. This was the road from prairie to shore. White lights in front and rose lights as anti-shadows, it glided toward its destination as if it were a dream on automatic.
The book had rained onto the park bench one paper-drip at a time, or at least that is how Ariah imagined it. Born of a storm cloud dense enough to cut out all light, she mused. Though all about it the wood was drenched and rotten, from front cover to back, the novel was as dry as it would be on the hottest of summer days. To her adventitious fingertips it was baked to such a searing heat that she retracted her hand with a scream. Sadness. Anger. Danger. What in the world could create a book such as this?
A cloud dragon is a dual-element creature of legend. Born of water and air, it is given to both truth and freedom. My grandfather once told me that he met one as a child, that it was as soft as marshmallows with the scent of meadow flowers. Its voice, he said, came as if a choir of angels sang and it took great joy in the beauty of its words. A dragon, apparently, is so wise that it soothes the soul of even the most worried mind. He said that, beneath its open wings, the human heart and soul begins to dream in entirely new ways.
The sky was a blush of smudged grey, as if a new future had been drawn in pencil and then softened by a giant’s hand. From the distance came a slow and low rumble and the air was water-heavy and thick. The wind that had barely been enough to ruffle a flag, was now keen enough to rip clothing from a line. Olive stood, her hair tousled into an almost tornado spin, this storm was going to be etched in their memories long after it had passed.
To the blackness came an electric flock, bolting from graphite-cloud to wind-whipped loch. Within that cradle of mountains, in that valley snug, we could only but imagine the force upon each jagged peak. For the lake splashed as if it were gravel that, from the heavens, fell. So heavy were those drops that on winter's hand befell.
Beneath an expanse of blue, rose a pathway snug to the meadowland. Birdsong notes danced from the trees, then into stepping stones grew. At first I watched them hover, defying gravity. Then, up them my wildest dreams did leap with me following close behind. Up, up, up! To the disco poet’s loft!